Not Tonight
by bamftastik
Summary: *NSFW/MA* Tabris/Alistair/Zevran... Riordan's revelation still haunts Alistair. As for his fellow Warden, well... if this is to be her last night who says she can't have everything that she wants?


Right. Okay. With a last shuddering breath, he opened his eyes.

The hall stretched ahead deserted. He should have welcomed it, rejoiced in the change, but now the silence hung heavy, the stillness suffocating. The weight of all the world.

Again he squeezed shut his eyes, letting the darkness linger. The old Warden's words had been gentle, pity stirring behind the flatness of his gaze. Even beneath the whispering accent, each syllable had become a swift and artful blow.

He could remember turning to her, neck stiffening, almost refusing to obey. All the colors of his own thoughts had played across her face, things that he would never be able to put to words. Again, he had felt the hole rip wide, but her eyes had been only for Riordan.

"Okay."

"As the eldest, the blow should fall to me, but—"

"—I understand."

And he? Did he understand? It had taken longer for the words to reach him, for his blinking eyes to see anything but her. Still, she had only turned away.

He had tried again, reaching for her as they stepped into the hall. Morrigan, though, had been waiting, pacing at the door to her chambers like a great and stalking cat. The look that she had given him was withering, even for her.

But there was nothing the maleficar could do for them now.

She had slipped from him, closeting herself with the witch, and so he had wandered, not truly seeing, not truly knowing now where he was.

Of all the nights… of all the company to choose above his own. But he had seen to that, hadn't he? He was king now and the king had to… they couldn't… She had barely spoken to him since Denerim. Always she would shield herself amongst the others, ranging ahead with Leliana, keeping pace beside Shale or Sten. The message had been clear. But he had had his own retinue, the constant swarm of servants and officers and minor lords – more names than he could ever hope to remember. Eamon, too, had kept close; there was much, too much to discuss.

Now, though, he would have almost welcomed them. But could all the planning, all the strategy truly matter when the end had already been decided? When one of them must fall? Loghain had said that Cailan went to his death chasing stories. Was it irony then, that his tragedy was already written?

Turning another corner, he almost sighed with relief. One of the Arl's servants, an old and bent-backed woman, was scrubbing a thick bristled brush across the stones. She straightened at his approach with obvious surprise. The bow was deep, her silver hair trailing nearly to the puddled floor.

"Uh... Hi."

Still she did not raise her eyes, the words coming mumbled quick. "Good evening, m'lord."

"Look, you… ah… you don't have to do that."

She blinked in surprise, daring to peer up at him. "Yes, m'lord."

He had raised his hands, he realized, as if to fend off the words. Lowering them, he tried to summon a smile. "How… how are you tonight?"

The grimace was unexpected, almost pained. Her mouth worked once, twice before the words would come. "I am… well. If it please m'lord."

"Right. Um. Good." He slipped round, edging past the spreading water. "Carry on."

He didn't run. Not really. But, rounding the next corner, he let himself sink against the wall. Of all the people, all of those who lingered in the halls below, who made camp in the yards beyond… all he wanted was her. And she was the one he could not have.

Yet this, this was familiar. He blinked. Yes, this was Riordan's room. He had made a circuit. That would mean… just ahead… He stopped, eager steps faltering.

The elf sat coiled on the floor, one arm resting across his upraised knee. There was a smile there as he raised his eyes, expectant, waiting, but stinging cold. Perhaps no company was better than some after all.

"Ahh, Alistair." There was a twisting hiss beneath the word, his own name suddenly a bitter and mocking thing.

"Zevran."

He unfolded slowly, easy grace belying the waiting tension there.

"What do you want, Zev?"

"I would ask the same of you."

"Just… go away."

"No."

"I'm the king." It sounded petulant, even to him.

The elf snorted, chuckling beneath the whispered words. "Of Ferelden, perhaps. I am Antivan." The leer was twisting cold.

He made as if to slip round, noting the other's rocking motion, the subtle shifts that mirrored his own. "Are you… guarding her door?"

He nodded once, the gesture becoming a mocking bow.

"For Andraste's sake, why?"

"Is it not obvious?"

"She asked you to keep me out, did she?"

He only scowled.

"Right. Very chivalrous. Valiant effort and all that." Again he made as if to dart round, the elf's hand coming firm against his chest. It was the eyes though, the eyes that set him stepping back."

"What were your words exactly?" He stalked forward now, fingers curling against Alistair's breastplate. "Ahh, so you are king. And a human king need human heirs, yes? Of pure blood."

He blinked. "She – she told you?"

"Did you know then, I wonder, know that she was not for you? Know that you were merely waiting for a better… opportunity?"

"And_ you_ are going to lecture _me_ about fidelity? As amusing as that would be…" He snorted. "I don't have time for this."

Spindly fingers caught his wrist as he pushed past, spinning to twist it behind his back. Alistair's breath escaped in a hiss, the other's whisper coming hot against the back of his neck.

"But what did you make her _believe_? There were promises, no?"

The laugh almost hid the pain. "And you? What does she think of this? That you're her friend? Lurking outside her door to play the hero? Pathetic, even for you."

The boot took him behind the knee, buckling to sink hard against the floor. Cursing, he ground his teeth.

Moving round, Zevran crouched, putting his face only inches from Alistair's own. The smile returned as he tilted his head, mocking now. "Did you not think… perhaps she called me here for a different reason? That I was only lingering here… savoring the moment?"

Pushing to his feet, the laugh came deep. "Yeah. Right."

"Truly? You did not know?"

She wouldn't. "She wouldn't."

"Ahh, but you are king now. What concern is it of yours? She is of no use to you."

It was his turn to lash out, hand wrapping round the lean sinew of the elf's arm. Still he only blinked, sneering down as if the tightening grip were no more than an errant bit of filth.

"It's not… like that. Children are… difficult enough for one Grey Warden. With two…"

"Oh ho, so you do not hate her for her race. Merely for being a _Grey Warden_, for being what you yourself are."

His grip loosened, hand slipping away. "I don't… I don't hate her."

"It was certainly not love that I saw that night."

"What night?"

The elf snorted. "Do you think that she told me in passing? Do you think that it came idly… over breakfast, perhaps?" He sneered. "But you truly have no idea, do you?" It came with a slithering hiss, the blade seeming to hang in the air between them, the point dancing only a hairsbreadth from Alistair's throat.

"Zevran."

Alistair could feel himself stiffen, but Zevran only acknowledged her with the smallest of nods, the blade unmoving, unwavering still. There was no doubt behind his eyes. She had merely to say the word and he would do it. Perhaps it was no less than he deserved.

It was with effort that he broke that gaze, looking beyond the steel, beyond the eager grimace, to face a sight more terrible still. She stood framed in the doorway, surprise and anger and resignation sliding cross her pale and pointed features. And yet it lingered, that haunted cast, that heavy realization. There would be no sleep for her tonight, no sleep for either of them.

"Zev."

Reluctantly he sheathed the blade, folding his arms to lean easy against the wall. The smirk did not reach his eyes.

Still there was no welcome in her tone, the words coming flat and deep. "What do you want, Alistair?"

"I… ah…" Fair enough question, but beneath her gaze the excuses seemed to fade. She was watching him, lips playing beneath her teeth. There was impatience there but also something more, something deeper, something almost like fear. "I thought… I thought you might want to talk."

"There is nothing to talk about." The edge behind the words was harder than he had expected. Fear, definitely fear.

"What did Morrigan want?"

She blinked then, flushing even as she scowled. "Nothing."

"It didn't look like nothing."

"She… she came to say goodbye."

"Goodbye? She's gone?"

There was a chuckle there, bitter beneath her sigh. "I didn't think you'd be sad to see her go."

"I-I'm not. But to just desert us like that?"

"You expected more of her?"

"Well no, but… I'd expect it of some more than others, but—"

Stupid, stupid. If possible, her gaze grew darker still, flowing his glance. Again the assassin's words came back to him. _He didn't know_.

Zevran, though, only smiled, slipping though the door to stand behind her, sliding a lingering hand over her shoulder. She didn't flinch at the gesture.

"There is nothing to talk about."

"Oh? Really? Because it sounded rather important to me."

"You are the king."

She meant it as explanation, but he only shook his head.

"You are the king. I am but a Grey Warden. And I will do what I must."

The realization came, twisting cold in his chest. She had already assumed… His palm slapped hard against the doorframe, the stumbling steps bring his face only inches from hers. "No!"

Still she looked up at him and he could see them now, the looming tears, dark and deep and wavering. Her head tilted, surprised at his sudden anger, trembling fingers reaching to sweep an errant braid behind her ear. Something glinted there, something new, but with a shake of her head it was gone. "That's how it must be. You are the king. I am nothing."

"You're not…"

But she had stepped back, back into the room, back into those waiting arms. It was meant to unnerve him, he knew, hurt him, but it was nothing, nothing compared to this.

The anger came sudden, his steps carrying him unthinking through the door. "Did she tell you? Tell you what she's planning? That she's going to throw herself at the archdemon? That she's going to die?"

Zevran paused then, but there was no expression, no emotion behind his eyes. "Is this true?"

Somehow, at last, this seemed to break her. She sagged, one hand coming to rest against her forehead as her eyes pinched shut. "Riordan… he told us… To defeat the archdemon a Grey Warden must die.

If anything, the elf's voice grew colder still, drawing her to sit beside him on the bed. "And must it be you?"

She hesitated, for a moment uncertain, before placing a warding hand on his chest.

"No." Alistair could feel himself straightening, what doubt there had been , what panic, gone now. "It should be me. It's only right—"

"—No it isn't!"

Never had he seen such light behind her eyes, not even when they… He shook his head. "I am the king. It's my duty."

She laughed now, cold and bitter and piercing. "Are you really that thick? You really don't get it, do you? I _can't_ let you do it."

Zevran had stiffened, his eyes only for Alistair now.

He turned, the words snapping. "What? It's not like you care. I die and it's practically a party. And if she dies? Well, you're free of your oath. Win win, right?"

The hand was at his throat before he saw the assassin move, the other delivering a spreading, blooming pain to his midsection. It was passing strange to see the elf without his blades but… there were stars… so many stars. The grip was tightening, he realized, and she was doing nothing to call him off.

It slackened, then, the eyes swimming before his own blinking as the sound came clear. Ostagar, Duncan, all that she had told him of her life before, everything that had happened since… Never had he thought to hear her weep.

The pain was gone, but Zevran was there first, those hands so gentle now, drawing her to her feet. There was a smile there, small and bitter though it was, fingers straying to sweep her hair aside. It was an earring of some sort. Alistair was certain he had never seen it before.

The kiss brought her to her toes, arching upward, all but hidden beneath his stiffening shoulders. It was there, the fear and desperation and helplessness beyond words, beyond excuses. Alistair could feel himself flushing. If this was what she wanted…

But her fingers twined there, pushing aside the wild, golden hair, deep black eyes meeting his own over Zevran's shoulder.

_It could well be their last night._

He moved without thought, the gesture firm but not harsh, moving the other man aside. Now, though, now it came crushing, the cry welling deep in his throat as he pulled her to him. Her lips were still flushed, still moist, the musk strange and lingering and not unpleasant. But she opened to him now, eager, needing, biting. Familiar.

Warmth then, hands trailing over his own as they found the tender dimple of her back. There were ties there… intricate… complicated. But those strange fingers were quick and skillful; he could feel the leathers sliding away between them as she sighed.

She turned, breaking the bond, the cool coming sudden and pained and bitter. Still her hands covered her, the smile growing as she gazed up at him. But she turned to Zevran now, arms falling away as her nakedness was crushed against his chest. He had made quick work of his own tunic, it seemed, skin so strange and dark against hers.

Even now the whorls across his back fascinated. He had to wonder… did she enjoy them? How many times had her fingers traced those dark designs? Did the… enhancements truly do everything that he had hinted?

But still she shone beside him, the first hints of a slick and gleaming sheen appearing between her shoulder's as the elf's teeth trailed down her neck.

Alistair found himself behind her then, hands moving over those tense and coiled muscles, her head twisting round to lay fluttering kisses against his cheek. Back she rolled, pressing against him, quivering almost imperceptibly, held aloft between them only by their pressure, their eagerness.

Zevran had moved lower still, her head snapping back as his teeth found the tender flesh of her breasts, Alistair's own hands slipping up and cross her belly, kneading, wanting, helping.

His hands moved lower, tangling uncertain against those others, already working at her breeches as she twisted. They hung low, his fingers contenting themselves with fluttering impatient at her waistband. She sagged, sobbing deep as the last of the laces came away. His eyes met the other man's, kneeling so far below him. The moment should have been… odd… decently awkward at least, but the elf only smiled.

Oh, Maker. There was no turning back now.

She fell against him as Zevran moved away, tugging the troublesome garments with him in a flourishing bow. He stood quick then, slipping free of his own leathers as he shifted toward the bed.

He had tried to explain it once, the way the drawings mirrored the lines of the body, the way they added a certain… No. But the elf had followed his gaze, grin spreading wicked now.

So too had she seemed to revive, moving toward the bed with shaking steps.

He put a hand on her arm. "Are you… sure about this? He did try to, you know, kill us."

She sighed. "There is much that you don't understand."

"Right. Obviously. But—"

"—Are we speaking of past mistakes now?"

He blinked, but there was something almost playful behind her smile.

"…Point… taken."

Her hand was in his then, warm, squeezing, reassuring. The surprise of it almost sent him staggering back.

But she slipped across the sheets, kneeling now before the other elf, glancing up from beneath her hair with a familiar wicked smile. His grin only deepened, one hand lingering to sweep aside the fallen waves. Her lips found his then, the lines of their bodies fitting together perfectly, melding as theirs never truly had.

Fluttering fingers traced along her side, flowing familiar across her curves, not touching so much as teasing. Lower still they moved, playing light over her belly, over the dark swath of hair curling there. The movement was sudden, cupping round to open her, the gasp almost pained as she arched back and away. But his other hand was on the small of her back, insistent, stroking, preventing her escape. Again she was crushed against him, the quickening fingers lost between them.

His eyes opened even as hers fell closed. They held to her face, drinking deep of every gasp, every twitch, the play of her lip between her teeth. With every movement, his smile seemed to thicken, the chuckling sighs stirring deep in his throat.

Still she writhed as if to escape but he buried his face against her neck now, the one visible hand sliding up to tangle in her hair. After a moment, though, he paused, pillowing his head against her chest as he turned his gaze to Alistair. "Still bashful?"

He did flush then – had he not before? But the other man's gaze had roamed to his breeches, still secure, still holding on in disbelief.

His laugh stirred hot against her chest, another arch, another groan escaping as he steadied her. She seemed to notice his distraction, turning thick-fogged eyes to him now. "Alistair."

At some unseen motion she shuddered, the grin on Zev's face splitting wide. This time he did let her fall, his free arm snaking round to lower her to the mattress. There she twisted, writhing, one hand clamping white-knuckled to his wrist, forcing him deeper still.

The elf, though, sat back, brushing a teasing kiss across her cheek as he withdrew.

She moaned, bucking in helpless anger. There was regret in his smile, longing raging still, but so too was there patience, a lingering enjoyment that Alistair could not quite understand. Meeting his gaze again, Zevran brought those fingers to his lips, sighing deep.

Her voice was half whispered, head lolling between her shoulders. "Alistair."

The steadiness of his hands stirred passing surprise, but the laces slipped free easily, the breeches falling away. Even the sting of Zevran's openly appraising gaze seemed somehow distant, unimportant now.

The sheets were fine silk of deep, earthen green. Pale against them she was, so pale, but it was the eyes that drew him, opening slowly now. There was a smile there, sad and still, but the sigh that escaped her was familiar, the hand that trailed along his arm trembling warm.

He blinked to find himself leaning over her, so close now. The words came before he could think them. "I-I'm sorry."

Her head tilted, hair spreading cross the pillows. "I know."

Hips rose up to meet him then, pressing against his own. His hands fell hard to either side of her face, elbows buckling as her fingers snaked along his forearms. Already the heat of her was staggering, wet and smooth and insistent as her legs wrapped round. Easily he slipped inside, throwing back his head to wail between clenched teeth.

She had trusted him, given him this, this which she had once defended at the point of a sword. It was that tale that came back to him now, those heartbreaking words. But he had won her over, the bitter smiles softening. He, a human man. And he had hurt her still.

But her hands moved higher now, across his chest, his neck, falling soft against his cheek. Quickening now, he felt those fingers tense, felt her gasp beneath him. Yet, still they fluttered tender, cupping, warm. He should open his eyes, should breathe, should…

She stared up at him, tongue flicking across her lips, but there was something more there now, something stilling, something calm. Something like forgiveness.

He thrust his arms beneath her, rocking back on his heels to crush her against his chest. Her legs wrapped round his waist, driving stronger, deeper now, her sigh swelling to a muffled scream. And she pulled back then, hips rolling against him as she pinned him beneath the eerie stillness of that gaze. It held there a moment, maybe more, the surging press of the encircling thighs all but fading from his mind.

When her lips met his any hope of thought shattered.

It barely registered, the stinging tears across his back, the press of her chest against his own, the shifting movement on the bed. The laugh was throaty, thick, and he could feel strange hands there now, sliding over her hips, moving with her, guiding, pressing her harder against him. Opening an eye, he could see Zevran rise behind her, trailing lingering teeth across her shoulder.

As the hands slipped lower, he almost jerked away, but the touch was for her, the delicate folds of her separating even as he surged inside. And there they danced, those fingers, her writhing coming wild now. Pinned between them, she arched; pinned between them, she screamed.

Never had he thought to… never had it been like this.

She fell against him, burying hot and panting breaths against his chest. But Zev's hands were moving higher now, gripping hard against her hips, pulling her away.

Alistair collapsed against the sheets, but the protest came as a bitter moan. Lower she slid, lips tracing across his chest now as the elf pulled her to him. She nibbled at a nipple, sliding a lingering tongue across his belly, low and lower still until…

"Whoa, whoa, hey! What are you doing?"

Again there was only calm behind her gaze. But he had never thought to… she had never…

The chuckle came from somewhere distant, somewhere above. "You can thank me later, my friend."

She gasped as Zevran entered her, knuckles squeezing white against her hips. But the breath came hot and thick, encircling him entire as her lips parted to take him in.

"Ohhh, Maker…"

She was hot and warm and sweet, tongue sliding deep, kisses as ardent as any they had ever shared. Never had he imagined…

Zevran was laughing now. He bent low, pressing his chest against her back, trailing lingering lips along her spine. And she arched against him, every movement traveling shuddering through her body to spill in wet kisses across Alistair's flesh.

His hands found her hair, curling, tangling there, pulling her shoulders low. Again she seemed to quiver, swallowing, sucking deep, teeth trailing with just the faintest hint of pain. He gasped, the light welling behind his eyes, the pull fast and faster now, the heave of her shoulders quickening beneath Zevran's eager press.

Alistair could feel himself thrusting upward, the choking gasp coming surprised and pained as he spilled inside of her. She collapsed with him, licking, lapping still, but her hands came hard against his thighs, nails biting painfully as Zevran buried his face against her back.

Still he writhed, kisses moving desperate across her shoulders, up her neck. They were lost beneath her hair, searching teeth finding the tender flesh of her ear, lips wrapping round the tiny gem still swaying there, biting, pulling at the lobe. She buckled beneath him then, the cry again swelling, his head thrown back to mirror her, straining and almost pained.

As he fell away, he pulled her with him, collapsing back amongst the pillows to nestle against his chest. But her arm had been thrown wide, trailing along Alistair's leg. It was only stiffly that he twisted, sliding across the sodden sheets to fall at her other side.

He lay on his back for a moment. There was something, something he should say. Something important. But still she lay wrapped in Zevran's arms, curled and fitted perfectly. Right. He was the stranger here, the villain.

As he shifted away, her hand fell against his arm, fingers sliding down to knot through his own. The squeeze was calm, reassuring, pleading. Rolling onto his side, he buried a sigh against her shoulder. She nestled there, burrowing back against him, wrapped between them in panting, exhausted warmth.

Sleep threatened, but still it lingered, still it nagged. The words came half mumbled. "We need to talk."

She turned then, neck twisting until she could meet his gaze. One hand again traced his cheek, her smile coming wicked and bemused, pulling his lips down to meet her own. "Not tonight."


End file.
